I wouldn’t say I get overly attached to “things”.  But I notice that some “things” have been around for a long time and I like knowing they are still there.  My robe is (was?) one of them.  I haven’t tossed it yet because it is such a part of my routine, but I will because it is an absolute rag at this point.  Still, it is oddly not that easy.  As I contemplate letting this go, I determined to write some things down about it.  As I looked at what I wrote, I noticed that this is really a metaphor about my faith… both the robe and what I wrote.  I hope you enjoy or maybe relate a little to an attachment that seems nonsensical.  My faith isn’t nonsensical, but sometimes it feels worn out.

Her Robe

Her robe, now ragged
dates back
to when mauve was a
color people wore
on purpose

Her robe
was a present
one she noticed
as thoughtful and sturdy
a long-term item
graciously accepted

Her robe
wrapped her body
whether thick or thin
without judgement or preference
serving in pink,
a noble purpose

Her robe
with no concern ever
for appearance, an apology
or its outdated hue
only trapping the warmth
between itself and her skin

Her robe
a steadfast eyewitness
to every word written
of the take-all-the-timers
the beat-up-brokens
and the some-day summits
she wants to see

Her robe
bruised and beloved
stoic and secure
as she loves and cries
sits and thinks
and sometimes makes
another plan

Her robe
faithful in her,
or in something
to provide simple warmth
and gracious acceptance
what her aging body
needs most

Her robe
worn so thin
needs replaced
but how?